


Fairy Tales

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Athos, with more patience than she would have previously given him credit for, repeats:</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Madame, I wish to ask for your hand.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A hundred different objections are crowding for space on her tongue; and at a loss to fully articulate any of them, she leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her bodice and demands, “Explain yourself.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Tales

**Author's Note:**

> **Content notes** : One comment on “natural” sexuality, reflecting the attitudes of the time; one instance of vomiting.

It’s the stuff of fairy tales. It’s more than she could have hoped for – with her husband not a week dead and his creditors already darkening the door, with her father waiting for her to come home and Bonacieux’s family waiting for her to leave what they now consider their property – and still Constance finds herself spluttering with something like laughter, barking too sharply – unbecomingly, _for a woman – “What?”_

Athos, with more patience than she would have previously given him credit for, repeats:

“Madame, I wish to ask for your hand.”

At a loss to say or do anything else, she simply stares: his expression is courteously blank where he sits across from her, one hand curled around what must be at least his third or fourth glass of wine, leaving a deep purple ring where it stands on the tablecloth that she will have to scrub with salt to get out. If she had never seen him truly deep in his cups she could easily believe him capable of no emotion at all, only deductions and manipulations – a politician as much as a soldier.

A hundred different objections are crowding for space on her tongue; and at a loss to fully articulate any of them, she leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her bodice and demands, “Explain yourself.”

“It’s clear that the last thing you want to do is move back to your father’s house.” He raises an eyebrow, as if daring her to contradict him. “A new union would provide you with the security you need to maintain your husband’s business, assuming that’s what you want.”

“Yes, very much.” He’s right, and thinking of just how much this could do for her – she could keep the house, keep some if not most of her husband’s customers, keep some measure of _freedom_ – it makes her feel a touch light-headed, and suddenly, painfully aware that she has no idea what on earth he –

No. _Surely_ not.

“You’re not in love with me.”

“No.” Something flickers behind his eyes; it’s gone too quickly for her to pin down. “Nor will I presume upon you – you have my word. What I am proposing is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

She doesn’t know what sorrows he’s seen in life – and doesn’t quite dare ask, not yet – but she can understand all too easily the value of security. Not in a material sense, not for him, but emotionally: a household to call his own, a place of refuge, creature comforts and a pretty young wife who knows nothing of what haunts him.

For what she gets in return, she can be that for him.

But because she can never quite not be contrary, she points out: “You’re still a solider. My father would never allow it.”

Something like a smile ghosts across Athos’ lips. “A _Musketeer_ ,” he corrects, gently. “And it’s not your father I’m asking.”

 

* * *

 

(She never does find out what Athos says to him; but when her father walks her down the aisle a fortnight later, he smiles.)

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it would have been wise to be less trustful; but as days turn to weeks, her new husband stays as good as his word. Between his duties and his drinking he’s often absent of an evening, sometimes for days at a stretch – and she can imagine him lying wine-sick back in his bed at the garrison, no doubt wanting to preserve the domestic sanctuary he’s made for himself. When he does dine with her he’s civil, reasonably sober, and never so much as kisses her hand; they’re exactly the people they used to be right up until they climb the stairs to the bedroom and strip to their chemises with their backs turned, before lying beside each other in the silent dark, painfully aware.

There’s enough on her mind already, without him to add to it: she quickly discovers that between mistrustful clients and her own inability to travel for days at a time, alone, her hopes of being a woman tailor were unsustainable, and she quickly ends up little more than a seamstress. The rent is always paid, at least – and suspiciously promptly, given the financial state of the average Musketeer – though Athos is tight-lipped the few times she raises the subject of money, answering only that there is enough for their needs.

They are still friends, of a sort. Athos still listens to her stories and her problems and takes pains to meet her needs, and in return she resolves to let certain things slide. That he never takes confession, and that her friends and neighbours are starting to notice; that he rarely sleeps a full night beside her; that whatever troubles him weighs only heavier as the summer comes.

He has been absent for three nights when she’s woken by a clattering below – and clutching a candle and a dagger in hands that tremble she creeps down the stairs only to find him drunk in his shirtsleeves, curling in on himself on the chaise like a wounded animal, his boots smearing mud on her fresh embroidery.

The dagger clatters to the table. His skin is cold and clammy through his shirt, and he puts a hand over hers on his shoulder and blinks up at her as if he isn’t seeing her at all, as if he no longer knows her.

“ _Tell me_ ,” she demands, “what troubles you. What makes you act this way.”

And he stares at her – seeing her at last – and rasps, “You should not have married me. I will ruin you,” before his eyes slide from her face and lose focus once more, and he twists abruptly forward and vomits all over the floor.

She pulls his discarded doublet on over her chemise to stomp out to the well for a pail of water, teeth chattering, muttering, “ _Men_. Idiot men,” under her breath.

Perhaps a better wife would feel sorry for him, but she is too well-acquainted with her own faults and all she can think of is the waste of it, the senselessness. That there is privilege in sorrow, and the indulgence of it (she knows at least that he is no common man, his name and the quality of his consonants speak for themselves); that men and women before him have hurt just as deeply and yet persevered, because they had no choice.

She cleans up his mess in silence, and ignores him when he whispers, “I’m sorry;” and when she wakes in the morning he is gone.

After that night he comes home less often, but when he does his eyes his eyes are clearer, his gait unaltered – and when he absents himself, she can assume what she wishes. (She takes pains to assume nothing at all; she will not help a man who does not care to be helped.)

It still bothers her.

For all Bonacieux’s faults, at least she knew him. His desires were always uncomplicated: a wife to enhance his status, to run his household and warm his bed, nothing more than she’d ever expected to become. But Athos –

She knows almost nothing about the man she now calls husband. His family name, yes, and his occupation – but the rest is opaque to her, his current desires as much a mystery as the man he was before the moment she found him slumped passed out against her chicken coop one balmy summer night nearly a year before, a half-empty bottle of wine spilled all over the straw and one of the hens nestled firmly in his lap.

She smiles automatically at the memory, but it’s fleeting. She has learned almost nothing, and only has what her intuition tells her: that a part of him yearns for her companionship, and yet he will not allow himself to believe in it, stubbornly holding himself apart from anything that might bring him a little happiness.

Ultimately there’s nothing to be done. It’s not her business, as she’s firmly reminded every time she asks a question that he will not answer, every time she pushes just a little and watches him withdraw. You can’t help those who don’t care to be helped; and every time it niggles at her like a loose tooth, she reminds herself to look around her at the four walls which are still her own, and to count her blessings.

This works, more or less, until a young man from Gascony kisses her in the marketplace, and Athos is briefly sentenced to death; and when it’s all over Constance looks over at where her husband and her new lodger are devouring bowls of steaming stew like starving men, and realises with an unpleasant lurch that she now knows what it is to fall in love.

 

* * *

 

It’s _awful_. Unsustainable, surely, although every day she wakes and it’s the same, suffusing every moment like light through stained glass. _Love_ , and not just a steady, warm affection but something immediate, demanding. _Hungry._

Never before has she truly desired: Constance has known Bonacieux’s touch and never much cared for it, and though she has in confused, guilty moments wondered how Athos’ hands would feel on her body, she has never _yearned_ like she does when confronted with d’Artagnan’s dark eyes and ready grin, his long brown fingers that seem to brush hers far more than she’s sure is either appropriate or necessary.

The evenings they all spend together quickly become interminable, watching d’Artagnan’s profile as long as she dares before ducking her head back to her sewing before either of them should notice where her gaze lies, her body heating like a beacon as she imagines him holding her, kissing her –

She hisses through her teeth as she pricks herself with the needle, drawing a drop of blood and two concerned expressions, which is no doubt still better than sitting demurely beside her husband as she imagines another man taking her to bed.

It’s torture. It’s _ridiculous_ , and maybe it’s wishful thinking but she just can’t help the way her senses are telling her that her feelings are returned, that d’Artagnan smiles brighter and looks longer in her direction than anywhere else. She also knows that he’s fierce and impulsive and determined to get what he wants, and if he wants her then only loyalty to a man he already calls brother would hold him back.

He’s wormed his way into Athos’ esteem with a speed and skill Constance would have called impossible, and she knows d’Artagnan would never betray him.

She is almost sure that if d’Artagnan knew the truth about their marriage, he would count it no betrayal at all.

About Athos, she is less sure.

She can’t deny that since they were wed she’s grown to care for him; and though she believes he cares for her in return, in his way, she can’t help the sting that d’Artagnan’s presence in their home has helped her husband more in a few weeks than she has in months. He has never completely relaxed around her, not even tried to touch her – leaving her to briefly wonder if he is truly devoid of natural urges, only the locket around his neck that he distractedly fingers when he thinks she isn’t looking speaking of another love, another life.

A betrayal from her he could stomach; a betrayal from d’Artagnan, he could not.

So she stops letting her gaze linger and pretends she does not notice the heat of d’Artagnan’s eyes upon her in turn, bites down on her longing as she lies awake night after night, her husband an arm’s reach away and yet still too far to touch, the man she truly wants even farther still.

She’s still waiting for it to get easier when Athos sits her down beside him – startling her when he takes her hand in his, that’s how rarely she’s touched these days – and looking at her hand in his as he says, “I should not have married you.”

 _He knows_ , she realises, guilt turning quickly to defensiveness as she yanks her hand back and says, as coldly as she can muster, “And I have never understood why you did. What do you _want_ , Athos?”

“Only to help,” he confesses, barely above a whisper – and she has to stifle the urge to laugh, because _how like him_ , to think only of her and not of himself at all. “To bring you… contentment, at least, if not happiness. Instead I have done the opposite.”

“Oh, you idiot.” She reaches for his hand again, squeezing and rubbing her thumb briefly over the webbing between thumb and forefinger, chest swelling with fondness as he just looks at her, clearly taken aback. “I have my _life_ because of you. I was happy.”

She doesn’t even realise she’s used the past tense until it’s too late.

“And now you’re in love,” he answers, eyes grave and earnest, “and I am standing in your way.”

“And I’d never have met him without you! Do you think my father would have allowed his widowed daughter to fraternise with soldiers? You and I would probably never have seen each other again.”

She takes a breath: her heart’s pounding in her chest and she feels half-sick with nerves, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at her that makes her brave enough to at least try –

“If you don’t want to stand in our way – don’t.”

When he doesn’t say anything in response, just goes very still, the sudden fear makes her babble, her mouth moving almost without her consent: “We’re married – you’re right, we can’t change that, but you know I – I don’t ask what you do, when you’re not here.” (If she had harboured suspicions of him having a paramour, or even assignations, the way he frowns briefly at her before blinking in realisation would have quickly put paid to them.) “You’ve never presumed upon me. I –”

The words run out as swiftly as they came, leaving her dry-mouthed with nowhere left to turn; and when the dreadful stillness in his face softens and he presses her hand tight between both of his the sheer _relief_ of it brings tears to her eyes, which soak into his shoulder as she turns and he takes her in his arms for the very first time.

“Do what makes you happy,” he murmurs against her ear; and while she might have expected him to be tentative, there’s only a moment’s hesitation before he holds her tight, _safe_. “That’s all I want for you.”

“And I you,” she replies, though she could have predicted the not-quite-smile he gives her as he pulls away, as if to say, _it’s already too late._

Instead he asks, “Do you want me to start staying at the garrison?”

It shocks her so much that she can only gape at him for a moment before the words catch up with her. “ _No_ , for God’s sake Athos, this is your home too. And it would be a scandal.”

“Of course,” he replies, a beat too late – _bloody men_ , she thinks, blind to anyone’s concerns but their own, though she’s still giddy with relief and her exasperation is mostly just fond. “But – if there’s something else I can do.”

“I’ll tell you.” She’s smiling so widely her cheeks will surely ache – and on impulse she leans in and pecks him on the mouth, unable to help giggling a little at the surprised _huh_ that escapes him. “I’m glad I married you, you know. Truly.”

She’s expecting him to deflect, but instead his fingers ghost along her jaw as he says perfectly seriously, “And I know I may not have given you cause to believe it… but so am I.”

 

* * *

 

She’s making bread when d’Artagnan comes barrelling into the kitchen, sweeps her into his arms and kisses her before she can even open her mouth to say hello.

She’s just coated both her hands in flour, but she doubts either of them care that it’s ending up smeared across his shoulders, his neck, in his hair as she holds him to her and vows never, ever to let go.

In all her life, it’s never felt this right to be in anyone else’s arms.

“Athos just asked me to cuckold him.” D’Artagnan’s almost laughing in wonder; Constance doesn’t think she’s ever heard a more beautiful sound, and when he lifts his head he’s grinning at her, his eyes wet. “He made me promise. And I thought this would never happen.”

“We don’t love each other.” Her fingers tangle in d’Artagnan’s hair, knotted from the wind; smooth along the growth on his jaw that isn’t quite a beard. “We married because I needed his help. We’ve never even lain together.”

D’Artagnan laughs properly at that. “Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t know how he could resist you.” He reaches for her hand, thumb rubbing over the wedding band she’s worn ever since she became a woman, expression turning abruptly serious. “I’d ask for your hand here and now if I could.”

It hurts a little – perhaps it always will – but at the same time Constance is sure this must be the best moment of her life.

She turns her hand in his, and slots their fingers together.

“Just make me happy.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t speak of it, but when Athos comes home not two hours after Constance and d’Artagnan have made love for the first time, he sits down at the dinner table, leans over and kisses Constance’s forehead for a long moment, before helping himself as if nothing has changed.

Over his head, Constance and d’Artagnan catch each other’s eyes, and smile.

Not everything has to be a fairy tale, after all.


End file.
